


id rather sleep

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Depression, Format: Streaming, George-centric, He also has like one line, Hypersomnia, I'd Rather Sleep; Kero Kero Bonito, Kinda, Loneliness, Medicine, Mentioned Alexis | Quackity, Mentioned Dream, Prescriptions, Sleep, Songfic, breakdown - Freeform, for a hot second - Freeform, he has like one line, i dont know how to tag this properly, mentioned badboyhalo, vent fic, very short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: george keeps sleeping through streams, he has a good reason though
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & GeorgeNotFound, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71
Collections: Anonymous





	id rather sleep

**Author's Note:**

> i have no clue if this is triggering or not but if it is PLZ tell me so i can add trigger warnings, thanks :]

George finally woke up, he didn’t want to be. He wanted to go back to sleep. 

He couldn’t though, he had slept for 13 hours and he had to be on the SMP. 

He had missed all of the important things on the SMP due to his sleeping issues, he wanted to at least show he cared a bit.

He pulls his blankets off of himself but he doesn’t get up. He only lays there. He can’t bring himself to get up.

Can’t get up can’t take meds. Can’t take meds can’t get up. 

See where he was running into a problem?

His phone started ringing. 

He moves his arm to grab it and answers quickly.

“George are you getting on?” 

It’s Dream.

“Yeah, one minute. I was just sleeping.”

“Of course you were.” He laughs lightly.

George didn’t find it very funny. 

“I’ll be on in a minute.”

“Alright, see you in a second.”

George hangs up and sighs. 

It’s more then a second when he finally gets on, hell, it’s more than a few minutes. 

But finally, he’s sat at his desk getting ready to load up the call. He clicks “join” and is bombarded with several voices overlapping each other. 

He hears his name from one of the many other SMP members, Quackity, he quickly supplies. 

“George, this is your fault-” Quackity starts.

Shit speaking of his fault, he forgot to take his meds.

He stands up quickly, and grabs his meds from his dresser drawer, he opens one bottle, puts the pill in his mouth, then the other bottle, repeating the same step.

He sits back down after his meds are sufficiently taken and he puts his headset on to catch the last of Quackity’s rant ending. 

“-everything thats fucking happened to this point and now you have the audacity to wake up and show up?”

George felt his heart drop, they noticed. 

He ignored his words, he didn’t want to deal with that right now.

“Hi there.” 

Tommy’s loud cackle erupts through his headphones followed by a quiet “Good morning George!” from Bad.

A small split of silence fills the call sending a chill up George’s spine.

“Are you guys streaming?” He asks.

He doesn’t listen to the answer, he feels funny, being awake. 

His head is buzzing and he feels numb. 

He doesn’t like the buzzing it makes him feel funny.

He felt quite funny.

But numb, regardless.

Funny and numb.

He doesn’t know if he prefers the numbness the medicine brings over the sadness but he doesn’t want to stop taking them to find out. 

He feels sealed shut in a weird way, similar to when you have your mouth closed for too long so when you open it your lips peel from each other. It feels like that but everywhere. It feels off, wrong, strange, gross. He feels wrong. 

His eyes cast down to his keyboard, the neon lights flash at him. It’s humorous in a way, how he decided on the rainbow flashing keyboard when he could only see one of the colors clearly. 

He looks back up at his computer and realizes that the group has already launched into a new conversation. 

Funny, funny, funny, funny, funny, funny, funny, funny, funny. Numb, numb, numb, numb, numb.

That’s all he knew, that all he would ever know.

He wishes he never got out of bed.

He wishes he could get back in bed.

He’s so tired.

He needs to leave, go on a walk, touch some grass.

He pulls his phone out and turns the volume down on his headset. He opens his messages with Dream. 

Georgie:  
i can’t be on the server, i tried but i cant right now im going to go on a walk or something  
sorry   
im sorry

He doesn’t wait for a response before he leaves the chat and takes off his headphones.

He turns off his monitor and goes to put on his trainers. 

The second he steps outside the rush of warm air and wet grass hits him in pleasant waves. 

He takes his time, truly observing the neighborhood, the birds, the grass, the trees.

He remembers when he was younger, when he’d get so lonely he’d talk to the trees. He would speak, they would ‘answer’ back. 

He knew better now, it was purely a figment of his imagination. They didn’t speak back. Now, unfortunately, he had to be lonely on his own.

God what he’d give to just be a kid again.

He walked a bit more before the overwhelming fatigue settled in, he was so tired. But he knew a nap wouldn’t help, they never did. They never helped because it wasn’t simply physical tiredness it was mental and physical exhaustion. All the time. Constantly.

Hypersomnia made sense, when he was diagnosed everything clicked into place. 

Depression, also, made sense, when he was diagnosed everything fell apart again.

He wanted to be normal. He didn’t want to be sad (to be frank, it wasn’t even sadness, just the overwhelming sense of grief, dread even.) He wanted to cry, he wanted that release of toxins, he wanted to feel emotions normally again.

The last time he felt normal emotions was, well, probably when he was a child. Way before he talked to trees and hoped for a response. Way before he even knew what depression was, before he could grasp onto his emotions enough to even realize that something was severely wrong with him. Even before he questioned what was real and what was fake. Before the anxious paranoid dreams began.

He looked up and realized he had stopped walking, he was just standing on the sidewalk in front of a nice grey house. 

Nothing but the house looked real.

Was it real?

Was it fake?

This doesn’t feel like the right place. 

He’s not where he’s supposed to be.

He’s never where he's supposed to be.

Why did he feel like this?

He took his meds, right?

Right?

He took them.

Did he?

He didn’t he should go home and take them.

Again?

He hadn’t taken them yet?

Yes he had.

Then why did he feel like this.

Why did he feel so dreadful? Why did he feel so sad? Why did he feel so nervous? Why was he so- God! He was so fucking tired!

He curled his hands together, his nails piercing his soft pale skin.

“Just shut up!” He says it outloud, in fear that if he didn’t it would get lost amongst his other rambling, swarming thoughts.

Now I know what’s real what’s fake.

Rather sleep than stay awake.

Just to be a kid again.

Just to be a kid again...


End file.
